Oltho Baras
by Celeborn's Concubine
Summary: Glorfindel's life is irrevocably altered when he burns his hand. WARNING: AUness, some violence and mild slash content. If two men together isn't exactly your cuppa tea, then maybe this story isn't for you...
1. Chapter One

**Think of this as a PWP with plot-like elements stubbornly intruding. A warning: bugger-all research went into this, so it's probably quite AU, but I have to confess that I really don't care. I liked the idea. **

**Basically, I remember reading somewhere that Tolkien originally intended for the Glorfindel that aids Aragorn and the hobbits in LOTR to be a different elf than the Glorfindel that fell battling the Balrog in the demise of Gondolin. He later changed his mind and made them one and the same… or was it the other way 'round? **_**Anyway**_**, it gave me this nice little idea. So, enjoy.**

**WARNING! This story contains mild slash- that is, a male/male relationship. If you do not like this sort of thing, then I doubt you'll like this story. While there's nothing overtly sexual, there is some implied sexual-type-stuff, maybe even some kissing in later chapters… so, if you like this sort of thing, please continue reading, if not… well; the exit is located in your 'back' button.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character's contained therein, nor do I profit in any way from the writing of the story. All I want is to put the pretty pictures in my head into words…**

**Many heartfelt thanks to Saltwater for beta reading this story. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine. **

It was quiet in the library at Imladris; the last rays of the setting sun reached curious fingers through the windows, gently caressing the aged books on their antique shelves. At a magnificent desk of dark, glossy wood sat an elf. He was beautiful, as all elves were; an ethereal creature of chiaroscuro, what with his raven-dark hair and glittering dark eyes, so exquisitely contrasted to that pale, pale skin, which shone with inner radiance, like a luminescent pearl. This particular elf's name was Erestor, one of the more notable residents of the house.

Long, artist's fingers lovingly caressed the smooth textured vellum of an ancient scroll, as those sharp elven eyes devoured the words written there. A small frown creased his brow as he read, pausing to silently mouth a word that did not fit.

The elven lord sighed and placed the scroll carefully on the desktop, brushing a lock of hair out of his eyes. Whoever had originally translated this work from Quenya into Sindarin clearly had only basic understanding of the former language, and appeared to be making up words whenever this had caused them difficulty. Which was a pity; because the Quenyan original was no more and this was all Erestor had to work with in order to retrieve its rather important content.

He could do with a drink.

Erestor rose, moving with typical elvish grace, stretched the kinks from his back, and sighed again. He could do with a nice back-rub as well, but that was not so easily attained. He then left his desk, tucked intimately away in a peaceful corner of the Imladrian library, in search of Glorfindel, the young Captain of the House Guards, whom Erestor knew to be in the library somewhere.

The two shared many things in common: a passion for horses; for chess; for fine food and wine. Ever since the promising youth (who showed potential to become a magnificent warrior in the fullness of time) had been appointed Captain of Imladris' small but effective force of House Guards, the two had been required to spend a fair amount of time together in a professional capacity, and had discovered a friendship blossoming. It was a friendship that Erestor intended to coax into a most magnificent bloom- maybe something more. On more than one occasion Erestor had awoken from exquisite dreams of golden hair fanned across his pillow.

He was beginning to think that he might be mistaken; that Glorfindel must have left without his noticing, when he heard the sounds of ragged breathing nearby. Hastening through the rows of book-laden shelves, the dark-haired elf came upon a much favoured spot in the library. It was here that the cosy, intimate space of the library opened up; simply carved stone archways leading to a small courtyard-garden, where many Imladrian elves would often deign to abandon their luxurious desks and lofty armchairs and go sit and read in the afternoon sun.

The sun, however, had long since retired for the evening, and the courtyard was bathed in the silvery twilight of moon and stars. At its centre was a small fountain, its ever-flowing waters tinkling and gurgling pleasantly; and it was here, draped over the knee-high stone edge of the water-feature, that Erestor found Glorfindel.

The younger elf lay sprawled across the stone, arm extended to submerge his hand in the chill water. His golden mane fell in disarray about his face, and Erestor could see his chest heaving, as if he were hyperventilating. Concerned, Erestor hastened to kneel at the stricken elf's side. "Glorfindel?" he called softly, reaching out to lay a gentle hand on his friend's shoulder…

Glorfindel's head snapped up; his sapphire eyes wide and frightened, his normally golden-tanned skin deathly pale. His whole body tensed, as if he might spring to his feet and flee. Erestor froze, until, after a long pause, the other seemed to recognise him. Glorfindel looked away once more, his whole form trembling, shaking in time to his desperate panting.

"Glorfindel?" Erestor repeated, hesitantly letting his hand settle on the youth's shoulder. When he received no answer from his young friend, the dark-haired elf cautiously raised the limb Glorfindel was keeping so diligently beneath the water. At first the other resisted, strong muscles shifting beneath Erestor's fingertips, but then he gave in, allowing the other to lift his hand from the water just long enough to see the dreadful burn that marred his once-smooth palm.

Erestor recoiled as Glorfindel pulled away, submersing his injured hand once more. Unshed tears glittered in the younger elf's eyes as let out a long, shaky breath. "Er-erestor?"

"Aye," Erestor whispered back, moving close once more and putting a supporting hand beneath his friend's elbow. "Can you stand? We should take you to the healing wing."

"No!" the other gasped out. "When I take my hand from the water… the pain… please, do not make me move."

"Alright then," he assented, raising his hand to stroke the blond's hair soothingly. "You stay here while I fetch help."

"Hurry," Glorfindel called softly after the dark-haired lord's retreating footsteps. "Please, _please_, hurry."

oOo

"Glorfindel, tell me how this happened."

The young captain was arranged comfortably in a large bed, propped upright on a myriad of plump, plush pillows, his hand held gingerly in a bowl of cold water which rested in his lap. Shivers still chased through his slender form, and his breathing was still uneven, the sound rasping uncomfortably across Erestor's ears, where he sat anxiously on a chair in the far corner of the room.

It was Lord Elrond, Master of Imladris and healer of unparalleled skill, seated on the bed at Glorfindel's side, who had spoken. He took the youth's uninjured hand into both of his own, soothingly rubbing his thumb over trembling knuckles.

"I was sitting, reading by that little fireplace in one corner of the library. I guess I left the poker in the wrong place…I-I was absorbed in my book. I reached out for the poker…and it had heated…the pain…"

The blond pulled his hand free of Elrond's grasp to scrub at his tearing eyes, not quite managing to hold back a sniffle. His eyes were wide and frightened, catching and holding those of each elf in turn, begging them to understand.

"The pain was not just in my hand. It spread through my whole body. I blinked, and all I could see was flame- _all I could feel was flame._ It encased me and consumed me, and there was nothing I could do. I opened my mouth to scream, and swallowed fire. W-when I close my eyes I….it all comes back."

Tears finally spilled, and Glorfindel dropped his head, wiping miserably at his damp cheeks. "Oh, young one!" Elrond sighed, gently putting an arm about the youth's shoulders. Though a formidable warrior in his own right, the ruler of Imladris was a gentle soul, and always ached for other's pain. The younger elf leant gratefully into his comforting embrace as Elrond brought up a hand to gently stroke his golden hair.

"I've never been so scared," the young captain confessed miserably. "Nothing like this has ever happened to me before…"

Elrond and Erestor exchanged anxious looks over the top of the younger elf's head. Neither had ever seen him like this before- Imladris' young captain was always so cheerful and effervescent, his angelic features ever aglow with his zest for life. Now he seemed almost physically smaller, his inner light dimmed, as a lantern whose candle has burned low.

The trio sat in silence for a long while, Glorfindel staring unseeing at the far wall. Finally Elrond stirred, sighing heavily. "Erestor?" he beckoned to his chief counsellor. "Will you sit with Glorfindel for a while? I'd like to mix up a sleeping draught."

Erestor nodded, and silently moved to take his lord's place on the bedside, cuddling Glorfindel close. It was nice to feel that beautiful body snuggled warm and pliant against his chest, but as he rested his chin atop that gleaming head Erestor internally lamented that this was their first embrace. He had dreamt of Glorfindel in his arms, but in his dreams they were always bathed in sunlight, happy and laughing, aglow with radiance, as they tumbled entwined upon his bed. Not this…not this grey, miserable room with Glorfindel pale and wan and in pain in his arms. Not like this.

oOo

The piercing scream cut through the still night air like shards of broken glass through unwitting flesh. Erestor, who had been dozing spooned close behind the younger elf, shot awake; his sharp eyes making a thorough, frantic search of the moonlit room for any danger. He found none, just Glorfindel thrashing in his loose embrace. Even the draught prepared by Lord Elrond, supposedly to grant deep and dreamless sleep, had evidently proved insufficient guard for whatever horror stalked the youthful beauty through the realm of dreams. Try as he might, Erestor could not persuade the other to wake.

Glorfindel's eyes were open wide, yet unseeing; his heart beat a frantic tattoo beneath Erestor's hand. He was sobbing now, and heartrending moans of pain tore from his throat, their poignancy shaking the dark-haired elf to his core.

"Glorfindel! Glorfindel!" Erestor implored desperately, flustered and distressed. "Glorfindel! Please, you need to wake up! Glorfindel!"

Frantic, he gathered his golden beloved close, pressing his cheek against the youth's. "Glorfindel," he heard himself groan, as deep and pain-filled a sound as any the youth was making. The younger elf wailed again, still not waking. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed in the hallway outside, heralding the arrival of a wide-eyed and pale Lord Elrond, with two lesser healers following anxiously behind him.

oOo

_He had never known such agony. Flames danced and rippled along his limbs as his skin blistered and burned. His long golden mane was ablaze, adding further hurt to the cracking sting of the whip which lashed his back and flanks. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound was forthcoming- instead he swallowed a mouthful of heat and pain, stealing the breath from his lungs and setting an insufferable ache deep in his chest._

_He was vaguely aware, through the consuming haze of pain, of the sensation of falling. Somebody was screaming, where he could not- screaming his name; their desperate call rising momentarily above the din and clatter of battle. Others voices joined them; sweet elvish voices strained and hoarse from fear and pain, contrasting harshly with the brute calls and hollers of marauding orcs. _

_And then, as clear and beautiful a sound as he had ever heard, came the enraged shriek of a great eagle, and Glorfindel knew that his loved ones were saved. That realisation provided a brief spark of comfort in his world of agony. But his ordeal was not over, for at that moment he and the flaming monster with which he was entwined hit the hard stone, in an overwhelming explosion of bone-shattering impact. _

_All was darkness, and silence, but for the rasp of his own laboured breathing. Then that, too, faded; disappearing into the charcoal reek and shadow of his ruin, and that of his foe…_

oOo

Glorfindel blinked as the grey blur of his sickroom swam into focus. Violent tremors racked his slender frame and cold sweat slicked his skin as he clung, terrified, to a quietly weeping Erestor. Elrond was there too, holding them both close to his chest, his strong hands shaking as he stroked Glorfindel's hair.

The youth slowly took stock of his surroundings. It was not cold and unforgiving stone upon which he lay, but a soft bed. His toes and the tip of his nose were chilled by the cool night breeze. He could feel the heat and the weight of his fellow elves against him; smell them; feel them breath and the deep beating of their hearts. Erestor's tears were trickling warmly down his neck and across his collarbone; the other's sable hair sliding like satin across his skin.

"Glorfindel," Erestor whispered, brokenly, and the echoes from his nightmare, of many beloved voices shouting, screaming: "Glorfindel! Glorfindel!" sent a violent shudder coursing through his body.

Tears spilled, to roll unfettered down his cheeks, as he made to clench his fists in the sheets, for what little comfort it gave, and thus re-awakened the bright agony of the burn in his palm. Teetering back on the edge of the nightmare, he forced himself to think of nothing but the sensation of Erestor's heart beating above his own; concentrating all his considerable will on setting his own heart to beat in time. Together their racing hearts slowed; together their hitched breathing became rhythmical and easy once more. When the dark-haired lord shifted, Glorfindel wound strong arms tight about his ribs, his silent plea for Erestor to remain where he was somehow understood.

And so they remained all three, 'til the coming dawn bathed the room in its gentle glow and the horror of the night had passed.

oOo

**It was pointed out to me that my use of the word 'tattoo' to describe the beating of Glorfindel's heart may come across as a little odd… just in case anyone was unaware, the term tattoo is also used to describe a military drum performance, i.e. the Edinburgh Military Tattoo, and it is in this context that I use the word 'tattoo'.**

**I hope everyone has enjoyed the story so far, so sit back and hold on tight for the next instalment! Feedback, queries and randomness all very much appreciated ;)**


	2. Chapter Two

**Many thanks to: MegilEnDae, Arianna I Dunadan, Faoiltierna and Diary'of'Fairytales for their reviews. I just love reviews :D**

**Faoiltierna: Thank you very much! I'm so glad you feel that way, as my main aim in this piece is to explore Glorfindel's emotions, both past and present. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the character's contained therein, nor do I profit in any way from the writing of the story. All I want is to put the pretty pictures in my head into words…**

**Many heartfelt thanks to Saltwater for beta reading this story. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine. **

Glorfindel was exhausted, but he didn't dare sleep. To even close his eyes invited a resurgent wave of horror so strong that… the youth let out a slow, deep breath. He would not think of it.

It had been three days ago now that he had burnt his hand. Loathe to laze abed when it could bring him neither sleep nor comfort, the young captain had been trying to distract himself with… with anything which came to hand. He attended to his own duties as well as he was able to, he did his best to help Erestor and Celebrian with the many tedious piles of paperwork related to the running of the household, he struggled to make up fresh bandages for Elrond. Anything to keep from thinking about… that.

Elrond had told him that his burnt hand was healing well, but not as quickly as should be the case for a healthy elf of his tender age. The Imladrian lord had hesitantly suggested he make Glorfindel up another sleeping draught, but the blond had refused. The last had not afforded him safety from this terror and he didn't…he didn't…well; he was not yet desperate enough to try again.

Elrond had looked at him sorrowfully, and not pursued the subject further.

Just at the moment, though, the younger elf was beginning to regret his stubbornness- it was so hard to keep his eyes open! His lids felt heavy; his weariness was making him melancholy... Glorfindel dropped his face into his hands with a frustrated sigh.

There came a light step behind him, and the warm weight of Erestor's hand on his shoulder. His friend had been so very good to him these past few days. He could hear the beat of the older elf's heart and smell the sweetness of the soap he used on his hair. His voice was soft and melodic, giving the younger elf's shoulder a gentle squeeze as he spoke: "Glorfindel? Are you alright?"

"I…" the blond shook his muzzy head to clear it. "I'm fine, Erestor, just a little tired."

"Here." Glorfindel looked up blearily as Erestor laid the most beautiful red-covered book on the desk before him. He flicked the pages open, revealing an illustration the younger elf recognised from his childhood schoolroom. It was The Fall of Gondolin.

"Is this what you dreamt of, young one? Is this what you see when you close your eyes?"

The illustration was of tiny elven figures, their size robbing them of any great detail, fleeing from a city which was going up in a roaring wave of red and yellow flame. There was a Balrog perched atop a flaming building, wings extended as if it meant to pounce onto the path before the racing elves.

_It did not need to come hurtling down from the clouds above; a bolt of terror and flame. It had no need to flap those dreadful wings, tipped with wicked, bony barbs, and knock them all to the ground with the force of the blast. It had been waiting, and merely stepped onto the stony path before them._

_It would have been better if it had roared. It would have been better if it had cracked that frightful flaming lash above their heads, booming threats. It would have been better if it had charged. But the creature was inconsiderate of elvish sensibilities. It stalked slowly forward; its claws clicking ominously against the stone; its wings tucked neatly back. It didn't snarl, or drool, or even lick its lips, as he might have expected. It _smiled_, a calculating, hungry expression, and that smile chilled him to the bone…_

"I hated this…the teacher read it out, and the other children all thought it was so much fun that I shared a name with one of the old heroes. But all I could think about was that he died. Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower died. I had…I had such terrible nightmares for weeks and weeks…"

The young captain accepted Erestor's handkerchief to wipe his tearing eyes. The older elf stood behind him with a hand on each of his shoulders now, a welcome gesture of comfort and support. Glorfindel wished the dark-haired elf would hug him. Erestor was so beautiful, carved as exquisitely as any statue, but shining with life and warmth. The blond couldn't pinpoint the exact moment he had developed this attraction to his older friend, only that it had been going on for some time.

"Could this not be the source of your distress, Glorfindel? You clearly identified strongly with your namesake, and experienced some trauma when first you learned of his violent death. Might it be that your wound," the older elf carefully took Glorfindel's wounded hand in his own, as if examining the burn on his palm, "brought back these memories to you?"

Glorfindel barely managed to suppress a wistful sigh when he felt Erestor's lips touch the top of his head in a chaste, comforting kiss. "Maybe. But I would have said that I am too old to be so affected by my childhood fears." He felt the colour rising in his cheeks."I am supposed to be a warrior, Erestor. I am supposed to be a competent leader- Imladris' safety is partially in my hands. I cannot fall apart over something like this…"

Erestor pressed another kiss to the top of Glorfindel's head, his warm breath stirring the younger elf's hair when he spoke. "Does it help you to know that I am deathly afraid of moths? Elrond or Celebrian will tell you, they have found me in my office, cornered and nearly hysterical with fright, on more than one occasion. Logically, I understand that they are only moths; small and harmless. But when confronted with one… Oh, but they terrify me! The beating of their little wings is more than I can bear."

"No!" Glorfindel's head snapped up, his expression one of surprise. "I cannot believe that, Erestor. You are so wise, calm, kind and patient. I cannot imagine you have such a-" he caught himself just in time, before he said something rude. Erestor moved around in front of him while he was speaking, and now he held the younger elf's face gently in his hands. His dark eyes sparkled fondly, a faint smile quirked lips, and his expression was so kind and loving that Glorfindel felt his heart skip a beat.

"You find it hard to believe I have such a silly fear? Oh, but it is true. When I was younger I was ashamed of it, because I thought that others would think me weak or foolish. But over the years I came to realise that the things many people fear might be called silly, but that doesn't make those people any less brave, or any less wise. We are none of us perfect, Glorfindel."

The dark-haired elf leant forward and bestowed a third kiss, this time on the other's forehead, just between his eyes. "Don't be so hard on yourself, young one."

Erestor heard Glorfindel's quiet, love-struck sigh as he brushed through the door. He could not help glancing back over his shoulder, a speculative smile hovering on his lips.

oOo

_It was a beautiful night, with the crescent moon adrift amongst a sea of stars in a near cloudless sky. All the folk of Gondolin were arrayed upon the city walls with much laughter and merriment. They awaited the coming of the sun, for tomorrow was the great feast that they named the Gates of Summer. _

_Glorfindel stood with many of the other house-lords, talking and drinking 'round one of the many glowing braziers gracing the wall. He looked up at a gentle touch on his shoulder, into the fair face of his close friend, Ecthelion of the Fountain. There was, however, no smile of greeting on the other lord's face. Rather, a puzzled frown marred his countenance as he gazed out over the wall._

"_Do you see that?" he asked Glorfindel, nodding at the horizon. The blond turned to look in the direction his comrade had indicated, and was instantly frowning too. Where the dark silhouette of the mountains met the night sky was a line of red, which grew as the two elves watched in dawning horror. By unspoken agreement they both began to run at the same time, dodging the many revellers as they sped in search of King Turgon. Some of their folk called after them as they hurtled past, while others were crying out and beginning to point at the ominous red glow climbing ever higher in the sky…_

_Matching Ecthelion step for step, Glorfindel raced past a cluster of his own men, calling out for them to sound the alarm. He noted them hastening to obey, as he silently thanked the Valar that he had chosen to wear his ceremonial armour. He even had his sword to hand, in the decorative scabbard especially made for such occasions…_

oOo

"Glorfindel?"

He started awake, fingers grasping for a sword hilt that wasn't there. The movement awoke the deep ache in his palm, causing him to flinch.

"Oh, Glorfindel, I'm sorry, I should have let you sleep…" the elven youth looked up into the concerned face of Lady Celebrian. She was beautiful: long silver hair piled in queenly fashion atop her head, her eyes bright and sparkling in her heart-shaped face. Carefully, she put down the stack of parchments she had been carrying, before smoothing his hair back in a motherly fashion. The young captain pushed himself upright, blinking the sleep-haze from his eyes. It seemed he had dozed off at Erestor's desk, his head pillowed on the open pages of the red-covered book.

He had been reading the Tale of the Fall of Gondolin, wondering all the while if Erestor was right, if this strange affliction was merely a remembered horror from his childhood. It felt so much more real than that, though.

"I was just surprised to find you here, and called your name without thinking. I am sorry, young one."

"Do not apologise, my lady. I was dreaming- and they weren't very pleasant dreams. In fact, it is probably best that you woke me.

Celebrian smiled ruefully, giving his good hand a reassuring squeeze. "This will pass, Glorfindel. Never fear."

Dropping his gaze to the tabletop, the young elf sighed softly. "Aye, my lady," he murmured. "I hope you are right."

oOo

_The Balrog came on slowly, hefting it's sword in one taloned hand. It was a wicked blade; the jagged edge smoking and dripping with sizzling blood. The Balrog waved its lash almost lazily, and as the sinew '_cracked!'_ flame blossomed along its length._

_He had no time to second-guess himself, nor time to be afraid. Shouting for the refugees straggling up the rocky path behind him to fall back, he leapt forward, naked steel in hand. The Balrog laughed, a short, barking sound, and stepped forward to meet him._

_The first blow let him know he was sorely out-matched; the impact of blade-on-blade threatened to tear his weapon from his hands and made his fingers numb. The Balrog was much taller than he was, and had an infinitely better reach. Worst of all, the lash needn't even touch him, for the heat of it as it swept close by his back was enough to raise his skin to blisters. Nevertheless, Glorfindel would not back down. If he was to die he would much rather do so fighting… something which seemed increasingly probable as a heavy blow glanced off his armour. Thankfully, by the skill and spell-craft of the elven smiths, the Balrog's blade was turned, though poor Glorfindel was sure the force of the blow had cracked his ribs. Even so, winded as he was, the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower would not suffer his foe to gain any ground…_

_Glorfindel battled with the Balrog for many minutes. To the languishing elf, however, it felt like much longer. It was a battle in itself just to draw breath; the skin on his face and other unprotected places was seared and blistered; and the strain from parrying such powerful blows was making itself known as a growing pain through his back, arms and shoulders. Yet it never once entered that noble elf's mind to retreat or surrender while his loved ones were in danger._

_To his dismay he heard the din and clamour of approaching orcs, soon followed by the clash of battle joined somewhere behind him. The visceral need to help his folk lent a surge of renewed strength to Glorfindel's limbs, and seeing an opening he took a desperate chance and swung with all his might…_

_His blade bit deep into the crease of the Balrog's elbow, rending flesh and cutting far into the joint. How the brute screeched! For a moment it seemed that the fiend must fall back, as its whip arm flopped near-useless at its side, but then a venomous light sparked in its slitted eyes, and with a furious howl the Balrog sprang. Too well versed in warfare to be taken totally by surprise, Glorfindel managed to drive his blade into his foe's shoulder as he was borne backwards under its weight. But the monster had a grip on him now, and all the advantages of height, weight, and strength, as they grappled there upon the stony path._

_His armour held yet: razor-sharp claws skidded and scratched, but failed to break through; and although the sword which beat at his side was causing massive dents and creases the metal was not rent. Still, Glorfindel felt much like some elf-child's rag-doll, tossed and shaken and battered all about. Somehow the Balrog's lash had become entangled about his legs; a source of scalding pain. It took all the wit and fortitude that the wounded elf could muster to somehow pull free the dirk thrust through his belt, and ram it home into the fiend's belly, against which he found himself pressed._

_Black blood spurted, burning Glorfindel's face and hands. His own cry of pain was buried under the sheer volume of the Balrog's scream as it fell away, clawing with it's remaining hand at it's wounded belly. The dirk had pierced so deeply as to have totally vanished from sight, and no matter how it scratched and scrabbled, the it could not tear it loose. In its frenzy it had come perilously close to the edge of the precipice which bordered their way, and now it began to topple over, despite the last minute extension of its wings._

_Perhaps even its wings could not save the Balrog, but they were the doom of Glorfindel. They granted it a boon, if only for a matter of heartbeats, and that was time enough to extend one of those long arms, and snag the morose __elven lord's long, golden locks with those wicked claws…_

_He had never known such agony. Flames danced and rippled along his limbs as his skin blistered and burned. His long golden mane was ablaze, adding further hurt to the cracking sting of the whip which lashed his back and flanks. He opened his mouth to scream, but no sound was forthcoming- instead he swallowed a mouthful of heat and pain, stealing the breath from his lungs and setting an insufferable ache deep in his chest._

_He was vaguely aware, through the consuming haze of pain, of the sensation of falling. Somebody was screaming, where he could not- screaming his name; their desperate call rising momentarily above the din and clatter of battle. Others voices joined them; sweet elvish voices strained and hoarse from fear and pain, contrasting harshly with the brute calls and hollers of marauding orcs. _

_And then, as clear and beautiful a sound as he had ever heard, came the enraged shriek of a great eagle, and Glorfindel knew that his loved ones were saved. That realisation provided a brief spark of comfort in his world of agony. But his ordeal was not over, for at that moment he and the flaming monster with which he was entwined hit the hard stone, in an overwhelming explosion of bone-shattering impact. _

_All was darkness, and silence, but for the rasp of his own laboured breathing. Then that, too, faded; disappearing into the charcoal reek and shadow of his ruin, and that of his foe…_

oOo

Glorfindel shot upright in his bed, drenched with sweat, and entangled in his twisted sheets. He had barely enough time to grab for the chamber-pot under his bed before the first heave gripped his stomach, and it was many minutes later before he dared to set the now-full vessel down.

Shaking, the youth wiped morosely at his mouth. _Valar, but he had got some in his hair… _His burnt hand throbbed with pain from gripping the pot, as well as the remembered hurts from his dream. He had finally accepted a sleeping draught from Elrond, too weary to carry on as he was, but it obviously had not worked…

Exhausted, both physically and mentally, and emotionally defeated, Glorfindel sat alone in the dark and wept.

**Whadda ya know? Research has occurred! I spent a fair amount of time going through different versions of the 'Fall of Gondolin', from 'The Silmarillion', 'The Book of Lost Tales Part Two', etc, both before and during the writing of this chapter. Glorfindel's fatal fight with the Balrog is covered in greater detail in the earlier pieces, but in said pieces the Balrogs are also somewhat less invincible… in the version from 'The Book of Lost Tales', for example, Glorfindel soundly kicks the Balrog's butt, including chopping off one of it's arms, and then by some weird fluke it manages to grab his hair while it's falling and pulls the poor elf along for the ride. As the tale evolved the Balrogs became much harder to defeat, but we also lost a lot of the details regarding how one actually got the better of the fiery buggers. Soooo, I've tried to find a balance between bringing in some of the exciting details about the battle from the earlier versions and remaining true to the… more complete?... image of the Balrogs.**

**Here's hoping that it worked :S**


	3. Chapter Three

**Yay! I finally decided on a name for this story. I've decided to call it **_**Oltho Baras **_**which should (I hope) translate to something along the lines of: **_**To Have Fiery Dreams**_**. **

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed Chapter Two. I just love reviews ^_^**

**Disclaimer: don't own, don't profit, etc.**

**Many heartfelt thanks to Saltwater for beta reading this story. Any and all remaining mistakes are mine.**

Glorfindel was cold. It was not something he'd ever experienced before. Oh, he'd felt the sensation of a cool breeze against his skin; the shocking thrill of plunging headfirst into an icy stream. He had never, though, felt the discomfiture of actually _being cold_. Even beneath the soft covers of his bed, his skin had rippled into gooseflesh, and when he looked at his hands and arms he saw their normally golden-hue had became a blotchy purplish colour. The tears which continued to spill sporadically down his cheeks felt warm against his skin, and his body had been seized by a bout of violent shivering.

_It seemed a lifetime ago that his feet had last been both warm and dry. The constant slush which soaked into his boots made his feet ache bitterly at best, and numb at worst. . His heels had long ago rubbed to blisters, and more than once he had fallen, tripping over feet he could no longer feel. His hands suffered similarly, despite the fact that he was wearing gloves, and his face was stung by the howling wind, which at times blew forcefully enough to physically move him backwards. _

_How he longed to simply lie down and rest awhile! Never before had he been so tired; never before had he even imagined it was possible to be this bone-weary. There was nowhere, though, to rest, unless he lay down right there on the snow and ice. He had seen others do so; seen the torn, irritated skin where they had had to pull free of the clinging frost. His own fingertips had not escaped unscathed. _

_There was nothing to be done but to keep placing one foot before the other, just keep going, because there was nowhere to stop and no chance of succour until they reached the end of these Valar-forsaken ice fields. He in particular had to keep going; had to put on a brave face. As he found encouragement in the broad back of his Lord Turgon before him, unbowed even before the fierce assault of the elements, his own folk found support in stoicism. He could not let them down. _

_When they finally arrived on the other side, he promised himself, he was going to be warm again. He would bask in the heat of a cheerily crackling fire; savour the sensation of a belly full of hot food – and bathe! Oh, even if a tub wasn't a possibility, a wash with a rag and some hot water would seem like the most decadent luxury…_

The weary youth started, blinking open eyes red and sore from weeping. He wasn't sure how long he had been sitting huddled and shivering beneath his covers, battling with his increasingly heavy eyelids. He didn't want to go back to sleep – he'd had his fill of horror for one night - but knew that it would inevitably happen if he stayed in bed.

A bath! That might make him feel warmer. Glorfindel disentangled himself from his blankets, shivered at the cool breeze caressing his exposed skin, and headed for the small room adjoining his bedchamber. Within was a large enamelled tub. He'd never actually used it before. Like most of Imladris' warriors he typically bathed in the streamlets and pools beside the training grounds. If Imladris' maidens were rumoured to regularly spy on these post-training activities, he'd never yet caught them at it – although he was sure he'd heard the odd giggle from the bushes on more than one occasion.

As the dawn's first inquisitive tendrils found their way through the chamber's small window, Glorfindel gratefully accepted help into the tub's blissful heat from the servants who had filled it. One obliging fellow helped the young captain to wash his dirtied blond mane, the soap he used filling the room with the sweet scent of rose and geranium. He could hear the others moving about his main chamber, their conversation reduced to a soothing murmur as they tidied and prepared to lay out his breakfast.

Glorfindel was wholly unused to such attention. Proudly independent, he normally loathed allowing another to perform such menial tasks on his behalf. But the big, black kettle used to heat water for the tub was simply too heavy for him to lift one handed.

With the heat of the water soothing the tension in his body, and the gentle fingers of the elven servant massaging his scalp, Glorfindel nodded off.

oOo

_Lamplight reflected upon the rolling waves and the stone quays, much as it had just hours before when those same quays were pristine and tranquil. They were eerily serene now; eerily and wrongly serene, for it was not the stillness of a peaceful night which gripped them now, but the stillness of death. Pools of blood, looking like great puddles of spilled ink in the erratic lighting, were everywhere. Worse still were the bodies lying unnaturally still on the cold stone. Some of them were burned._

_Glorfindel had never seen a dead elf before. He imagined few of his fellows had either. There were the stories, of course, of terrible things happening out in the dark world beyond Aman, before the elves had come across the sea and within the protection of the Valar. They had never seemed real to him before today. That wasn't to say he had thought them untrue, but they had seemed so far removed from the reality he knew that they may as well have been. _

_As an elfling listening to such tales, he had received a much… neater… impression of violence. No tale he had ever heard mentioned looking into the eyes of a fellow elf as he lay dying. Not the pain you could see in his eyes; the horror and fear as he realised that his life was ending. Not the terrible anguish that could be conveyed in a death-cry, or in the keening over a loved one's hacked body. Not the awful smell of spilled viscera. _

_No tale had ever described what it felt like to have warm blood flowing over your hands._

oOo

Glorfindel surged awake with a revolted cry, bath water slopping everywhere. The servant, who had been carefully rinsing off his hair, yelped with surprise as the blond scrabbled to rise from the slippery tub. Bright agony flared in his injured palm as his hands compulsively gripped the rim.

The youth was forced to pause as a series of dry heaves gripped his thankfully empty stomach. In the low light of the bathroom he thought he saw the dark stains of blood on his hands and swirling in the tepid water of his bath. His nausea trebled, but when he raised his hands they were unblemished, if shaking. Soap had caused the water to cloud somewhat, but it was wholly devoid of blood.

"Captain Glorfindel?" the servant asked, evidently much concerned. His touch was gentle as he laid a hand on the younger elf's shoulder. "Are you well? Should I send for Lord Elrond?"

"I-" Glorfindel ran a shaking hand through his still-soapy locks. "No." He took a deep, shaky breath, then another, more calmly. "No. Help me finish here first."

The servant nodded, but the way he anxiously bit his lip as he resumed rinsing the soap from Glorfindel's hair belied his concern.

oOo

"Erestor?"

The dark-haired elf looked up to see Glorfindel standing before his desk. Startled, he began to rise. The younger elf looked awful. His once golden-tanned skin was pale, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His snug fitting breeches and simple long-sleeved linen shirt couldn't disguise the fact that he had lost weight, but what struck Erestor most of all was his beloved's expression. His eyes, normally a bright and beautiful window into an equally bright and beautiful soul, were dark and haunted.

"Glorfindel." The older elf was unsettled by the other's appearance. The blond didn't just look tired, he actually looked unwell. Such a thing was all but unheard of in Elvish households. Erestor rose and moved around his desk to take Imladris' youthful captain by the elbow. "What brings you here, young one?"

"Please," Glorfindel's voice was low and strained, as if facing a daunting and deeply unpleasant chore. "I need you to help me discover more of Glorfindel of the House of the Golden Flower."

oOo

_He was perhaps Glorfindel's age, perhaps a little younger. His clothing marked him as a tradesman of some sort; a shipwright, not a fighter. Even if he had been a warrior he was no threat to the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower – not with one hand pressed tight to his belly to prevent his insides spilling through the neat slice a Noldor blade had made from hip-to-hip. It had happened right before Glorfindel's very eyes. The aggressor, an elf wearing the livery of Feanor's house –his lord's uncle and ally – had simply run the other through because he stood in his way. That elf was already gone, moving swiftly away down an alley, and Glorfindel even took a few steps in pursuit, but soon faltered, deciding instead to go to the Teler, who had sunk down with his back against the wall. _

"_Here," he said in the most comforting voice he could, "Let me see that." Somehow he managed to keep his voice from shaking. One glance told him that this wound was far too grievous for him to deal with, and there was no one else about to send for a healer. Hoping desperately that someone else might come; he did what he could for the poor elf, applying pressure to the wound and trying to make him comfortable. But all the while distressingly warm blood continued to well from the wound. It soaked the rag that Glorfindel had torn from his shirt to hold against the cut, and trickled across his fingers and the backs of his hands. No matter what he did it wouldn't stop, and still nobody came… _

oOo

The young captain of Imladris lay on his belly on the floor between two book-laden shelves, listlessly scanning the pages of an ancient-looking tome. Erestor, likewise seated upon the floor a little way apart, gave a small smile of greeting as Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrian approached. Elrond's brow was furrowed with concern as he looked meaningfully to their young friend, who'd apparently not noticed their coming, and he sighed heavily:

"How is he?"

"Exhausted," Erestor replied, "-and heart-sick."

"What is it you're doing?" Lady Celebrian asked, kneeling down in a rustle of skirts to better view the collection of aging books at Erestor's side. Her deft fingers sorted quickly through them, tracing the titles on the worn and battered covers. "Why, all of these seem to be histories of Gondolin. Do you really think that's wise? It was the story of that city's unfortunate fate which so distressed our dear Glorfindel in the first place…"

"It was Glorfindel's wish, milady." Erestor replied simply. "It seems these dreams about his demise have awakened a burning curiosity about his namesake in our young friend. We have been searching for any information regarding Glorfindel of Gondolin, as he lived, not as he died."

"There isn't much," Elrond mused, stroking his chin in thought. "I know that he was said to have the close friendship of Ecthelion of the Fountain and King Turgon both, and was also dear to the King's daughter, my grandmother, Idril. He was obviously a military commander of some prowess, for he had led the forces of the House of the Golden Flower in Turgon's cause even before the building of Gondolin-"

"He had served Turgon even in Aman," The three older elves turned to view their own Glorfindel as he wearily pulled himself into a sitting position. "- and came with him across the ice." The youth's voice was soft and somewhat diffident.

"It is possible," Elrond agreed, nodding. "Many of Turgon's closest advisers and most faithful vassals had been with him since-"

The Lord of Imladris' voice faded away into silence. He, like his lady and Erestor, was looking at Glorfindel, who in turn was staring at the floor. He seemed wholly unaware of their presence, lost in contemplation of something other than the carpeting at which he was gazing.

"He witnessed the kinslaying." That damning pronouncement was little more than a whisper. "He couldn't ever forget the feeling of elven blood on his hands."

oOo

**Author's Notes time! Yep, Glorfindel of Gondolin was originally from Aman:**

'**Now Glorfindel of Gondolin was one of the exiled Noldor, rebels against the authority of Manwe, and they were all under a ban imposed by him.' **

_**However**_**: **

'**From what is said of Glorfindel in **_**The Silmarillion **_**and **_**The Lord of the Rings**_** it is evident that he was an Elda of high and noble spirit: and it can be assumed that, though he left Valinor in the host of Turgon, and so incurred the ban, he did so reluctantly because of kinship with Turgon and allegiance to him, and had no part in the kinslaying of Alqualonde.'**

**Both quotes are from: J.R.R. Tolkien **_**The Peoples of Middle-Earth: The History of Middle-Earth Volume 12**_**, Chapter 13, page 380. **

**The freezing cold dream/ flashback-sequence is, of course, meant to be the crossing of the Helcarax****ë, the frozen wasteland that the Noldor following Fingolfin had to cross in order to reach Middle-earth: "Led by Fingolfin and his sons, and by Finrod and Galadriel, they dared to pass into the bitterest North; and finding no other way they endured at last the terror of the ****Helcarax****ë and the cruel hills of ice. Few of the deeds of the Noldor thereafter surpassed that desperate crossing in hardihood or woe."**

**J. R. R. Tolkien **_**The Silmarillion **_**1977 **

**Chapter Nine **_**Of the Flight of the Noldor**_** p 90. **__


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